I don't date because I'm 56.
I dated many, MANY men in my younger years. Perhaps one is only entitled to x number of dates and kisses and orgasms, and I've no doubt surpassed that quota tenfold.
I also don't date because all the men I dated seem to only look at younger women now. So I don't date in protest of the fact that middle-aged men have a much easier time dating than middle-aged women. Down with dating tyranny!
"Date older!" My friends advise me. But I don't want to be a younger woman for some old man. Old men don't listen to rock and roll anymore. And probably would not consider spending a Sunday in bed or a Saturday night attending a literary reading in a dive bar.
I don't date because I have an entire network of guy-friends -- married, single, straight, gay -- who love me and make me feel better about myself than any romantic interest could.
And I have a bevy of fab female friends to hang out with when the mood strikes to take in a ballet, or film, or dinner. When I'm with them I don't even have to wear makeup, let alone worry about tweezing and waxing and all those other hellish rituals of female life.
And I am increasingly focused on what's really important in my life as I get older: my grown daughter, my aging dad, books, films, my non-profit work, intimate dinner parties, my Zumba classes.
Not dating.
I don't date because there's no such thing anymore as casual dating. When I was 25, and I spent the night out, who cared? Well, now my cats would care. I would have to set it up in advance for someone to come and feed them. Oh, and let in the cleaning lady too. And maybe check for my package from LL Bean. It's really just too complicated to spend the night out.
I also don't date because my book haunts me and is prone to muddying the dating pool. "I'm not Leo," I've heard -- too many times now -- from men who think they might want to know me but then read about my love of some fantasy guy and know they can't ever measure up to that fantasy, as if anyone could. I tell them this, but it's already too complicated.
I don't date because my life is well-ordered -- and dating throws everything into chaos.
I mean... say for example I did date.
Say I reconnected with someone from my past, whose parents are friends with my parents. Who is almost exactly my age, so there are no younger/older issues. Who read my book and knows my peccadilloes and still wants to date me. What then?
If I did date this person, suddenly I'd start spending way too much time on things like the Outfit Selection Process.
Suddenly none of the clothes in closet would be right anymore. I don't have the money to spend on an entirely new wardrobe just now. If I were dating, I'd feel forced to spend it anyway.
If I decided to date this person, it might change my definition of the term "fun weekend" -- expanding it from farmers' market/brunch with friends/lots of work time, to include things like shopping for lamps for his new place, connecting somewhere on the long stretch of highway between his home and mine for picnics (that include kissing!).
My girlfriends would sometimes be eased aside (I can feel their glares from here), and work would start to take a back burner.
These are two more reasons I don't date.
And If I were dating, all my convictions about what a catch I am would be cut like a fishing line stuck on a rock. Instead I'd start wondering if I ought not have more in my IRA, why I've let my carpet get so shabby in that one spot, and why I never learned to cook.
I would spend way too much time puzzling over an email from him that was a little cryptic. I would wonder why he didn't answer my question? Is he bored already? Maybe it's better not to email at all. Our parents didn't have email!
If I were dating, rather than be happy that a lovely man has appeared, smiling, on my doorstep, I might start wondering about types. Is he mine? I mean, I might think to myself, he's not a broke Bohemian who wears beard stubble and berets and howls like Bukowski after too much grappa. No, he's stable, works in finance, wears dry-cleaned Ralph Lauren, golfs.
If I were dating this person, I might start viewing his beautiful Italian blazer as a harbinger of disaster.
And if I were dating this person, I'd start second-guessing what I see in him, and triple-guessing what he sees in ME.
If I were dating, the body I've almost made a truce with would no longer be adequate. And I would start eying those detox/fasting kits in Whole Foods, thinking it might be a good way to drop a few pounds before the weekend.
If I were dating, the weekend might bring the first sex I've had in a long time, because, remember, I don't date. But if I were in fact dating I'd have to come to terms with the possibility that sex in fact (please, God) goes along with dating.
I would start wondering if I still knew how to do it, and feel bolstered by the fact that many (too many?) men heaved a happy sigh and told me I was great in bed. I would also consider that perhaps I'd forgotten some tricks. After all, this is a different body now, gone south from its former perky firmness. Could it still bring it on in the sex department?
And in order to have good sex, doesn't one need nice lingerie? I don't have any nice lingerie anymore. So if one were actually dating, one would also need to shop for new lingerie to wear on that first sleepover, which might be just before his birthday.
And if it were right before his birthday, and if (in theory) I'd only been dating him for a month, I'd spend WAY too much time thinking about what to give someone you haven't even slept with yet (although you just might very soon) for his birthday present.
I might then decide, if I were dating, that I'd like to surprise him with a bottle of that Sancerre he adored at that second dinner in Berkeley -- because bottles of wine are always a thoughtful gift and don't show undue eagerness or premature devotion.
If I were dating, I might wake up at 2 a.m. and not be able to get back to sleep, thinking about the crinkles around his eyes when he laughs -- and how I made him laugh until he had to dab his eyes. And how he kissed me in the parking lot and held my hand while we walked.
And I could also wake up worrying about the whole sex/lingerie/birthday gift question.
So let's add it up. If I were dating, I could easily become an insomniac who distrusts her own appeal, second guesses her attraction to a really swell guy, spends too much time on shallow pursuits like clothes and lingerie and waxing at the expense of her work.
Who needs it?
But if I were dating, I might also notice how music suddenly seems personalized just for me, how a sunny day seems tailor-made for beach walks and flirty emails, how happy couples make me smile, rather than smirk in resentment, when I see them holding hands on the street.
If I were dating, it could change my comfortable life. And who needs that?
I mean... besides me?
-- Jane Ganahl 3:03 a.m.
